No sun today no tiny speck of sun
that is to say no ball or ray that I can see
just piles and piles miles and miles
of cloud looking so heavy one
would think it might all fall
to the earth at any moment in
giant blobs and blankets
impenetrable
lying heavily over All
stopping All in our tracks
offering a perfectly good excuse
for eating sleeping and reading
this whole day right away.
Pink orange coral ribbons cross
a lightening blue sky behind the stark black
chaos of bare trees and I wonder why
I am not up before dawn every day why
I am not pouring these colors those shapes
into my small brain for safekeeping
day upon day upon day why
I do not lie on my back in the frosty
grass gazing up at the black sky
with all its stars and its moon why
I do not keep myself in the small room
of four sycamores gathered together
there where they reach up courageously
higher than I could ever dare climb
why I am not there now why
I was not there ten minutes ago why
ever other things seem more pressing
more important more worthy somehow
easier to lose.
Shall we mightn’t we risk
everything in this one short
life we have here right here
right now? Mustn’t we
love wholly this perfectly imperfect
world those flawed wandering
souls that grand old tree that
tiny finch the very songs of All?
Must’t we love All
in the fiercest possible way
give our whole tender hearts gladly
wrapped triumphant in knowing
that this risk this love this tearing
open to reveal a beating heart to
give All while we can in this
brief slip of time is the grandest
most best onliest chance we will
ever have to be real human beings?
Snow on the ground
sun in the air
birds crowd the feeder
in noisy chaos.
This is the birthday of
a former lover now gone
from my life, tomorrow
of an old friend now gone
from this world.
Two names on a calendar
of birthdays that elicit
only memories now.
People wander in and away
I continue to feed the birds
the sun continues to shine
or hide, snow falls then stops
years roll along piling up in drifts
behind me leaving me
wondering whose name
will mean what on that calendar
this time next year?
Voluptuous moon
Marilyn Monroe of moons
stole my heart last night.
A heart is to open
a hand too
and two arms
a dusty book
a closed door
a locked box
a suitcase with pockets
curtains at the window
a gift with a bow
a box of crayons
a packet of tea
your two eyes
the corner shop
a cookie jar
two arms
a hand too
and a heart.
If you love a thing love it madly.
Love it like a dog loves his toy.
Carry it in and out the door
bring it to the rug and rest your
head upon it while you nap
snatch it from the jaws of others
shake and toss it give it
a thrill ride now and then
continue to want and love it
long after its ears arms legs
have fallen off long after
you’ve pulled out its squeaker
and all of its stuffing even
when it is nothing more
than a rag, love it.
Love it love it love it.
And then love it more.
It seems a tender little bit of something
to begin a new year on a Sunday
the first day of any week
in any month of any old year
a small symmetry that might
bode well as I like to think
plus my two dogs lie here lovingly
however uncharacteristically
legs over legs entwined suggesting
if I care to read it so (& let me say
right here that I do)
a quantity of forbearance
if not love not to mention that this day
is as sunlit and radiant as any
spring or summer day suggesting
grace and light to come
and in addition the wind does blow
something fierce meaning
(of course) that
ships’ sails will fill and billow
truths will be declared
angels sing in full chorus
as God whispers
recondite secrets to the trees.
Ah yes. This wind that sun
those dogs this Sunday
all signs point
to an extraordinary year.
A year ends another begins
and I am reluctant a bit sad
to see this one go loving odd
numbers as I do and in addition
eleven seeming a magical number
a prime and hinting at infinity.
Twelve, a dozen, I suppose has
merit insofar as being sturdy
ordered common a dozen of
these two dozen of those please
half a dozen of that will do
six of one half a dozen of the other
the clock strikes twelve
noon twelve midnight
twelve apostles twelve months
in a year both this one and the next
oh I’ll learn to love it for itself
Im sure, its reliable balanced
sturdy well-ordered protean self.